After all, you can’t be handsome sixteenyearold boys with bright minds and secure futures living in highclass Japan when you’re roughedup seventeenyearold runaways fighting for survival in urban America.

AN.
This is something new I'm going to try, because I've been
obsessing over My Chemical Romance's first album and can't let go
of this song. This story is going to part of an independent yet
interlaced series of stories – cross your fingers – based on the
song Demolition Lovers. Oh, this is either AU or set after the
entire series. Your call, and no spoilers.

For the fanfic100 challenge on LiveJournal. Prompt:
Independence

Hand
in mine, into your icy bluesAnd then I'd say to you, "We could
take to the highway"With this trunk of ammunition too, I'd end
my days with you in a hail of bullets

Intoxication,
Sometimes Delusion

Tamaki
shifted restlessly in the front seat, drumming his finger, but not to
the beat of the song playing on the radio. Kyouya found it
disconcerting, but paid it no mind.

The
road unrolled itself, gleaming gray under his headlights, contrasting
the darkness as they went along.

The
air was cold outside, a pleasant cold. Tamaki would've poked Kyouya
incessantly until he gave in, and with a groan, roll the top down of
his car. The gentle whirring would've been such music, such a
simple joy. He'd scream the joy of his youth to the wind as it
flicked his hair in every which way, while Kyouya played upbeat
songs. Was that a smile playing on the side of his face? Oh! But in
this cloak that the night provides, he'd be grinning.

Indeed,
they would've manifested the ideal of the world: Young, rich,
beautiful and in love.

But
it wasn't a convertible, and Tamaki couldn't find a reason to
scream.

A
familiar sound made its way into the car, that evil whining sound
that haunted Kyouya even more than it did Tamaki, though Tamaki,
being Tamaki, was more prone to the dramatics of their situation.

Tamaki
turned to watch the police cars catch up to them with glazed saucer
eyes. Kyouya just pulled out a handgun and shot at them blindly, his
eyes never leaving the road before him as stepped on the gas and
zoomed forward.

He
shot at the darkness for good measure, and made a turn at a corner
that led to an unfamiliar place.

They
weren't your typical youth who found drag racing fun. They both
found it pointless, a stupid way to get a rush. Furthermore, they
were used to being chauffeured around, or driving at a leisurely pace
at, say, some boardwalk with a beautiful view of the beach.

But
they learned to adapt.

After
all, you can't be handsome sixteen-year-old boys with bright minds
and secure futures living in high-class Japan when you're
roughed-up seventeen-year-old runaways fighting for survival in urban
America.

The
only thing that doesn't change, they realized, is one's
intoxication, sometimes delusion, on love and being in love.

Young
and in love. That's what everyone wants to be, right?

Sometimes.

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